Journalism / Apathy Overdrive

      In the quest to become a “real” writer, I have done everything wrong.  This assumption stems from the observation that, while I am a good writer, I cannot seem to get published.  The story comes first – selling it is more of an afterthought.  What I’ve found with this method is that stories not meant to be sold don’t sell.  Brilliant, I know.  I have a moderately successful blog, Dissonance, with a small, loyal readership.  I am starting my own webzine, Dissonance, Ink.  This is my tiny rebellion against the industry and their distaste for anything that doesn’t follow the tried and true formulas in place.  So, am I a real writer now?
        In a long-ago talk with my ex-husband, I was discussing the dilemma of how to become a published writer (if you’re not published, you’re not a real writer, right?).  He suggested I try to write about make-up or sex.  You know, something for a girl’s magazine like Cosmo.  What makes me an expert on sex or make-up?  Nothing.  I’m not particularly interested in make-up and, while sex is fantastic, I’m not entirely sure I have anything new or interesting to say about it.  Which brings me to today’s so-called “liberated” woman.  When did we all decide becoming Carrie Bradshaw was the symbol of success as a writer?  I am a female writer, so sex and make-up, oh hell, let’s throw in fashion, are ostensibly what I am suited to write about.  Being able to disclose my sex life shamelessly to the masses is a great success of feminism, right?  
        The answer is no, no, and NO.  Women are typecasting themselves to a ridiculous extent.  Sexism is alive and well, and we are partially to blame for it.  If I want to write extensively about sex, make-up and fashion, great.  For those of us who have other interests, say computers, there isn’t really a place for us because we haven’t demanded it.  I can’t count how many times a customer asked if “the guy” could fix his cell phone instead of me when I was manager of a beeper and cellular store.  Now that I’m part owner of a computer company, I often get mistaken for the receptionist, secretary or assistant to my partner.  Not that there’s really much difference between them, other than title.
        I never thought I would hit these same infuriating roadblocks as a writer.  I write fiction that may include dating and sex, but they are never the central points of the plot.  Trying to publish this kind of work is much harder than it seems it would be to pump out a romance novel, or an article on how I survived my divorce.  I have not yet been able to bring myself to write any of these things.  It does leave an essential question hanging: How badly do I want to see my name in print?  It is, after all, the holy grail for a writer.  We desire to be validated by the masses, loved by strangers, and be remembered for something greater than we are.  Herein lies the dilemma – you cannot possibly be remembered for something greater than yourself if you write about yourself.  We love Carrie Bradshaw because she is a figment.  If she were a real columnist, we would have forgotten her shortly after her last piece was published.
        So here I am, bowing down before the gods of publication in hopes of seeing my name in print, just once to be able to say, with complete confidence, “I am a writer”.  Having tried to avoid writing about sex, make-up and fashion, I’ve done just that.  I will be among the ranks of female writers who have made a place for themselves so small, so confined, the possibility of something truly new coming about seems dismal.  If this does get published, it will be more of a defeat than a victory.  Yes, my name will be in print, but it will surely be forgotten.